A personal poem I wrote some time ago and have since dedicated to Theresa Marie "Terri" Schiavo (December 3, 1963 – March 31, 2005)

If You Seek Me

Mark the proximity of what is not. The place of emptiness where I lay and lean on shadows that fill each space, the screaming not nearness held at bay. My pillow damp with the sweat of dreams, blind to the scratches upon this page, knowing such marking will betray all silence, all secret rage. This is what moves me See this and know :

I am the child that sees with her hands silver threads connecting the stars, and all the points there invisible rushing in to fill the void. Neither black, nor white, nor grey, but magenta and cornflower blue, russet of barley, gold of maze, a myriad of molten hue.

And I'll gorge with this gluttony of the blind to read with fingertips your stranger's face feasting across lips and pulse and breath, to a place far back of need and fear a place to sleep, to rest

And recollect there a time I danced solid, tossing pearls to the ground; knowing nothing of fallen crumbs, snatched up, wolfed down... Time was I grew sleek and sated and full, gloss of honey in my throat; dozing on all the richness the touch in my hand I owned.